Chapter 22
He seemed puzzled. '*I don' understan'."
''I saw a field of com out there," I said.
'That's nothin'," he said. ''On'y three acres. I kin handle that myself."
'*What if the union comes in an' says that you have to have a couple men to help?"
'They ain't comin' up here. Ain't n.o.body comes up here no more. Not fer a long time. n.o.body even knows I'm farmin' up here. The land all aroun' is wasted."
I remembered the words he quoted from my father's speech many years ago. "I he'ped my paw with the plowin' and 's.h.i.+nin'."
Suddenly I knew. "My grandfather's still."
There was a sudden pale under his tan. ''What did you say?"
"My grandfather's still," I repeated. "Did you find it?"
He hesitated a moment, then nodded.
Now it all began to make sense. Three acres of com in moons.h.i.+ne was a small fortune. "I want to see it."
"Now?" he asked.
"Now."
Silently he rose from the chair, picked up his shotgun and started for the door. I rose to follow him.
Betty May's voice suddenly wasn't a child's voice anymore. "No, Jeb Stuart, no. Don't do it."
I looked at him, then back at her. "Don't worry, ma'am. He's not going to do anything."
Jeb Stuart nodded and went out the door, I looked at Anne. "You wait here until I get back."
Anne nodded.
"I'll have supper fixed by the time you get back," Betty May said.
"Thank you," I said, and went out the door after Jeb Stuart.
He walked ahead of me rapidly, not once looking back. He didn't say a word as we threaded our way through the small forest on the side of the hill on a path almost completely obliterated by weeds. Suddenly he stopped. *'It's there."
I looked at what seemed an almost solid wall of forest brush. "Yes," I said.
"How did you know?" he asked.
"You told me," I said.
"Idon'tunderstan'."
"It doesn't matter," I said.
He walked a few steps farther on and pulled a clump of bushes aside and went through them. I followed, and the bushes sprang closed behind us. The still was in a small clearing partly cut into the side of the hill behind it, a log roof covered with forest brush over it. The black iron smoke pot seemed clean and untouched by time, and the copper tubing shone like new. Ten forty-gallon charred oak barrels were lined up next to the still, and on the other side was a long pile of neatly cut and stacked fire logs. I heard the thin trickle of a small stream and walked behind the still. It was there, sparkling in the thin light as it ran down over the stones and rocks. I put my hands in the water and held it up to my lips. It was sweet and fresh.
"That water runs into our well below," he said.
"How did you find it?" I asked.
"Huntin'. Two years ago. My dog treed a c.o.o.n. I took the c.o.o.n, then tracked the stream down to where the or house used to be. Right away I knew what I had to do. Three good years an' I'd be rich. No more chicken-s.h.i.+t farmin'. I could live like a human bein'."
I walked back to the still. He followed me. I looked at the s.h.i.+ning copper tubing. "The pipes are new?"
He nodded. "I had to fix ever'thing up. Betty May an' I worked fer a whole year. Clearin' the land fer the com, buildin' the shack. Took all our savin's to buy the supplies an' the materials. More'n six hundred dollars. 'Twam't till we got the com in las' spring that we really believed it was all happenin'. Ever'thing was jes' comin' along fine. n.o.body even knowed we was here. We never went down to Fitchville to buy anythin'. Once a week we drive down to Grafton, fifty-some miles down the highway, to git our stuff. It was jes' fine. 'N'en you come along."
I looked at him without speaking.
He put the shotgun down on the ground and looked around thoughtfully while he fished in a s.h.i.+rt pocket for a cigarette. It was wrinkled and crooked, as if it had been in there for a long time. Carefully he straightened it, then lit it. He let the smoke out slowly, and it swirled up around his face as he turned to me. "I guess Betty May an' me knowed in our hearts it was too good to be true. That it would never happen." He paused for a moment. His voice seemed strained. *'We ain't got much here. We can be off the place by tomorrow momin'."
"What makes you think I would want you to do that?"
''It's your propitty, ain't it?" He met my eyes. '*I saw that in the county records when I went to check on the owners. I saw your name there big as all git-out. Yer father put it in yer name three years ago. But ever'one down there in the record office said ain't
I turned away from him. I didn't want him to see the rush of tears I was suddenly fighting. Just another thing my father had never told me. Among others. "Go back down to the house and tell Betty May that I said you're not moving. I'll be down there in a little while."
I heard him get to his feet behind me. "Sure you kin fin' your way back?"
"I'm sure."
I heard the rustle of the brush, and when I turned around he was gone. I could still hear the sound of his steps crackling down the path. Then that was gone too and there was nothing but silence and the sound of a soft wind in the trees. I sat down on the ground. It was cool and damp to my fingers. I dug my hand into it and came up with a handfiil of earth. I looked at it. It was black and wet. I pressed it to my face and let my tears run into it. For the first time since my father's death, I began to cry.
It was still daylight when we finished eating. Smoked pork b.u.t.t, black-eyed peas and greens in a thin brown gravy, with home-baked com bread and mugs of steaming coffee. I saw Betty May watching me out of the comer of my eye. "It's real good," I said, wiping up the gravy in my plate with the bread.
She smiled, pleased. " 'Tain't much, but it's real down-home cookin'."
'That's the best kind, Betty May," I said.
*'That's what I alius say," Jeb Stuart said quickly. "Betty May, she's always readin' them highfalutin recipes in the magazines, but they ain't fer real eatin' -jes' readin' about."
Anne laughed. "Betty May doesn't have anything to worry about. I have the feeling she can cook just about anything she sets her mind to."
"Thank you, Anne," Betty May said, a faint blush rising in her cheeks.
Jeb Stuart pushed his plate away from the table. "As you kin see, we ain't got much room in here, but you all kin have the bed. Betty May an' I '11 sleep in the back of the pickup."
"You don't have to do that," I said quickly. "Anne and I have our sleeping bags. Besides, we like to sleep outside."
"Then the best place is the comfield. The skeeters won't git you there. I keep it sprayed real good." He rose from the table. "Come, I'll fin' you a good place where you'll be sheltered from the night wind."
I rose to follow him. Anne got up too. "Let me help with the dishes," she said.
Betty May shook her head. "They ain't much. You jes' set and enjoy yerself."
Darkness fell quickly, and ten minutes later, when Jeb Stuart and I came back from the cornfield, there was an old gla.s.s-enclosed oil lamp burning on the table, its yellow light dancing on the walls.
I glanced at my wrist.w.a.tch. It was almost eight o'clock. "Do you have a radio?" I asked.
Jeb Stuart shook his head. "We don' have much time to listen if we did. We usu'Uy turn in right after supper."
"I wanted to get the news," I said. "My brother was supposed to become acting president of C.A.L.L. this afternoon."
"Sorry," he said.
"It's okay." I turned to Anne. "Come, I'll show you where I put the sleeping bags." We went to the door. "Thank you for dinner, Betty May. We'll see you in the morning."
We walked silently to the sleeping bags. By the time we reached them it was really dark, and the last bit of light faded from the sky as we wriggled into them.
"They don't have any electricity," Anne said.
"They don't want any."
"She misses television. She told me so."
I didn't say anything.
"Are you going to let them stay here, Jonathan?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I'm glad. She was afraid you would order them off."
"She told you?"
"Yes. They found your name on the records. Did you know that your father gave you this land?"
"No."
"Then why did you come here?"
"I don't know," I said. "And don't ask me any more. I don't know anything. Why we're here today. Or where we'll be tomorrow."
Her hand searched out mine and held it tightly. I turned to her. The moon had come up now, and I could see her face. "You're strange, Jonathan," she said. '*You're becoming more and more like your father with every pa.s.sing minute. Even the sound of your voice."
''s.h.i.+t," I said. We were silent for a moment. "I'm sorry now I made you throw away all that gra.s.s. I could go for a few good tokes myself."
She giggled. "You mean that?"
"I mean it."
She wriggled out of her bag and sat up. A moment later she came up with a small pouch and papers. "My emergency stash," she said. "I'm never without it."
I didn't say anything while I watched her deftly roll a joint and seal it with a quick taste of her tongue. She reached for a match.
"Better let me do it," I said. "Let's not start any fires." I struck the match and sucked in a long toke, then gave it to her while I buried the match in the ground. She hit it twice, then leaned back on her elbow with a contented sigh. I did it again, gave her another turn, then pinched it out and put it into my s.h.i.+rt pocket.
"Did you ever see so many stars?" she asked.
I looked up at the sky. "No." I sensed rather than felt a movement in her sleeping blanket and turned toward her.
Her face had that peculiar look of concentration I recognized. Suddenly her breath rushed out through her tight lips. "Oh, Jesus!" she sighed. She became aware that I was watching her. "I couldn't help it. I suddenly got very homy."
She reached for me, her hands pulling my face down to her. I could feel her lips moving under mine. "Daniel!" she whispered.
Angrily I pushed her away. "I'm not the one who's strange, you are," I said. ''You're trying to f.u.c.k a ghost."
Suddenly she was crying. 'Tm sorry, Jonathan."
Then I was angry with myself. ''Don't be sorry." I pulled her head over to my shoulder. "It's not your fault."
She turned her face up to me. "You've been talking to him, haven't you, Jonathan?" she whispered.
"It's not real," I said. "It's all taking place inside my head."
"You're talking to him," she said. "I feel it. I know about those things."
"I don't."
She laughed. Her lips brushed against mine. Soft and light. ' 'Jonathan Huggins."
"That's my name."
"Someday you'll learn."
"Learn what?"
"That you're just like your father."
"No. I'm me."
Her eyes looked up into mine. "Jonathan Huggins." She raised her mouth to mine. "I want you to make love to me. Please."
"And who will you be making love to? Me, or my father?"
"You, Jonathan." Her eyes were still looking into mine. "There's no way you can f.u.c.k a ghost."
I stood in the gla.s.s telephone booth on the edge of the parking lot and waited for my call to travel home. The sign over the supermarket at the far end of the parking lot was simple. Big red letters on a white circle. FITCH'S. And on the line underneath the name, SINCE 1868.
The telephone clicked in my ear as my mother's voice came on the line. I started to speak, but the operator cut me off the line. I could hear her voice. "I have a collect call for Mrs. Huggins from her son, Jonathan." I couldn't hear my mother's reply, but the operator came back on. "You can speak now."
''h.e.l.lo, Mother," I said.